


the same slow unlidding of twin stars

by onedogtown



Category: Passing - Nella Larsen
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-27 06:19:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16213232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onedogtown/pseuds/onedogtown
Summary: Afterwards Irene was furious with herself.





	the same slow unlidding of twin stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [talkingcute](https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingcute/gifts).



> Title from Angelina Weld Grimké.

At the party, Irene found a spot for herself in one of the quiet corners, and stayed there. No one seemed to suspect that she was a kind of Coppelia, moving mechanically and with great, considered effort; she smiled brightly at Dave and Felise, and sipped as many drinks as were handed to her, and tried to look as if the music interested her. 

No one could have guessed that anything was amiss—or if it was, any observer would have mistaken it for the usual sort of marital tiff which sprang up naturally in parties of this type and then wilted once the alcohol wore off. 

Brian, for his part, was very easy and natural, and did not spare a passing glance for Clare, even after their performance in the entryway. Nothing could have allayed Irene’s suspicions now, of course. But to her mind it would have been less incriminating if they had trusted themselves enough to speak in public.

She should have been angry; instead she was as detached as a drama critic.

Irene was so focused on keeping track of her husband, and on not looking like a woman who went with her husband to a party and then kept him leashed, that in the whirl she lost track of Clare entirely. When Clare appeared next to her she was not startled. She had begun believing in the apocalypse; nothing other than the annihilation of life as she knew it could possibly rate.

“Yes, I’m all right,” she said more or less at random, in response to Clare’s inquiry. “A little case of nerves, perhaps—You look lovely, Clare.”

The last part was said almost without her intending it. Despite everything, Clare’s beauty was still capable of overwhelming her. Her looks had a peculiarly intense effect on Irene tonight. She felt as if she was able to look at her friend through the eyes of her husband. Can I blame him? she asked herself, and then in a flash saw herself as he must: matronly, scolding, dowdy.

“Thank you,” Clare said, in the husky voice that was how Irene imagined the white actresses in the movies. “Poor ‘Rene, you shouldn’t have let us drag you out tonight—you’re so flushed you almost look feverish.” She reached out and touched lightly at Irene’s face, as if to prove the point. 

Irene looked at her—the childhood friend, the threat to her life. The one did not lessen the other. She did feel flushed. In confusion she said, “No, I’m not in the least—I think I must go home, my head aches.”

Instantly Clare was all motherly solicitousness; the hangers-on, who still crowded around like a group of dark, lovesick ducklings, were dispersed. Clare announced to no one in particular that Irene must have a quiet place to lie down. No, there was no point in asking Felise for a bedroom; no place in the noisy apartment could be suitable. Clare would take her down to Manja’s—did Irene know Manja? Well, never mind, Manja was on vacation in Massachusetts, there was no trouble, only the three floors down by elevator. Clare would tell Brian—

Irene, who had not wanted to go and lie down in the first place—she was jangled and unsteady, she could not have lain still if she tried—said “No, no: someone else will tell him, can’t we go now?” When Clare shrugged an assent Irene felt extremely pleased with herself, as though she had gained the upper hand. 

They slipped out the front door, almost unnoticed amid the joyful tumult. Irene did not care if Brian realized that she left, or if he only cared that Clare had. She felt extremely weary. Clare kept a gentle grip around her forearm, as though Irene were in danger of wandering off, like a bored child; she could feel the heat of those long, slim fingers like a brand, even through the cloth of her dress. 

On the way down Clare struck up a gay conversation with the mahogany-skinned elevator operator, while Irene stood stiffly by herself, like a dummy in a shop window. She felt sorry for the man, whose answers were quick and deferential; he could not have been used to white women. Or perhaps he was, and counted Clare as one of a hundred tourists on safari, eager for a taste of Negro life, so long as nothing about it proved uncomfortable.

“If you’d been to any saloon within the borough that served Negroes, you would have met my father; he was a regular at all of them,” Clare was saying, with her bright, tinkling laugh, and in response the man said, “Well, I must have, then. It was a time ago. Can’t immediately call to mind any Kendry.”

Once they were on Manja’s floor Irene said, “That was reckless of you.”

“It doesn’t seem to matter very much, does it?” Clare said. She fumbled in her purse for the key. Irene automatically began ponder the riddle of Clare’s marriage, and then pushed the matter aside. It would not make any difference.

It occurred to Irene that she did not know whether the helpful friend was black or white, had become acquainted through the Freelands or through Bellew and his circle.

Manja’s room was small and dimly lit. Clare did not move to turn on one of the lamps, but said, “Well, welcome. I’d take your coat, if you’d brought one. Isn’t it nice to be out of the racket? That was a clever idea of yours.”

Irene did not bother to defend her headache. There did not seem to be any point. It occurred to her that there was something matched within them (like Juno’s swans, she thought fancifully) which made Clare able to guess these things about her without asking; it seemed to her very likely to be true, since she believed herself able to know the same things in return about Clare.

In any case she suddenly felt that she liked being in that tiny room. She felt pleasantly muffled, as if she had been rolled in clay and then afterwards baked very hot, so as to make her protected from the world.

Clare did not have the same feeling; when Irene looked she was wearing her tragedy face.

“I’m so glad to be in private, whoever’s idea it was. Irene—“ Her voice was very warm, very lovely; she glanced up shyly when her voice broke, like a cat looking for treats. “I feel as though something’s altered between us, somehow. You were the one who helped me to understand myself and what I wanted, and I’ve been so happy for the past weeks—oh! So happy, you can’t imagine. And yet I feel you beginning to shut me out, to go into other rooms where I can’t follow, and it drives me half crazy.”

Half of Irene thought it would be polite to applaud at such a carefully staged performance; the other half was overcome by Clare Kendry, as she always was, and wanted to run forward and seize her within both arms, and bear her down onto the couch, and stroke the gold head till she was soothed.

She pressed her nails hard against her palm and answered steadily, “Clare, I don’t have any idea what you mean. I’m very sorry if you feel neglected, of course, but the past month has been such a whirl, with Christmas and the boys and so on…” She trailed off pointlessly.

Clare looked at her and laughed. The sound was low and almost harsh compared to the usual melodic sound; as though (Irene thought) she was responding to a joke she had made herself.

She really was so beautiful, Irene thought—could not help thinking, even in such a moment. If only Brian could have admitted to that! He persisted in stoutly denying even finding Clare pretty, no matter how many times Irene had carefully raised the subject. It was the firm denial that was suspicious, rather than the reverse.

Clare said, “I know that I’m a nuisance to you, I know that very well, but I don’t think you can imagine what you are to me.” Her voice was soft, thrilling, too intriguing for Irene to take seriously. “Do you remember—you were one of the last people I spoke to, before I left, just after my father died.”

She looked at Irene’s face urgently.

“You put an arm around me, and kissed my cheek, and told me how sorry you were, and that dad was in heaven. I admired you so much. I think I already had the road ahead half mapped out, but right then I knew that it was all for nothing— that I’d see you one day and upset everything, and not even mind it. We talked a lot longer than that, but that was what I always promised I’d tell you. Oh, say you remember!”

It must have happened, Irene supposed. The only part of Bob Kendry’s death that she could remember was Clare’s brief outburst of frenzied, primitive weeping, but her own father would have insisted on her offering some comfort to the younger girl. It had been twelve years; so much could be forgotten. 

And yet she could not quite believe the story. She could not picture herself telling Clare that her father was in heaven; that had always been something she pretended to believe, for the sake of her own father. At the very least, she could not believe it in the passionate tones Clare had given it. 

Clare saw her expression and drew in a quick breath. “Never mind, I suppose it doesn’t matter,” she said, and walked over to the window. The only light came from there, from the distant street lamps and the windows of nearby buildings. For a moment Clare’s face was illuminated, and then a light flickered out, and she was only a dim shadow.

For a moment Irene’s certainty wavered. _I am lonely, so lonely… I cannot help longing to be with you again, as I have never longed for anything before; and I have wanted many things in my life…_

Quickly Irene said, “Who is Manja? I don’t think I’ve heard the name before. It was very kind of her to lend you a key…”

It took a moment for Clare to answer; she had turned to fiddle with the lamp. The light, when it came, was bright and unforgiving, making Irene blink several times.

Clare said, meditatively, “All right, I’ll tell you; I doubt your opinion of me can be lowered. I met her at one of the parties here, and came back here to spend the night when she invited me. You’re worldly enough to know about these things, I suppose. She was optimistic enough to give me a key— “in case you’d ever like to return,” she said. Wasn’t that kind of her?”

Irene should not have felt any kind of shock. This was Clare, after all, a woman who was all depths and nothing else. Clare, who concealed anything about herself that could be known. It was only arrogance that had made Irene think anything else.

“Was she pretty?” Irene asked. 

“It wasn’t about that,” Clare said, her voice colorless. Irene remembered Clare kissing her bare shoulder, almost an hour ago. 

Irene took a step towards her, and then another step. When did Clare realize what she meant by it? Irene couldn’t tell; she couldn’t even tell when she herself became certain. 

She kept her eyes locked onto Clare’s, though the intensity of it was discomforting—like carrying live coals in her hands—but she couldn’t have looked away, even if nothing could be lost by it. The promise of it was like a childhood dare which had to be played out. 

She stopped in the middle of the floor—let Clare go the rest of the way, if she wanted it so much. It did not occur to Irene to think that Clare might not want her. And Clare did move to stand in front of her, slowly, as if she suspected a trick being played.

What made Irene’s decision for her was not sex or the beautiful body of the woman standing near her. 

She thought about how long she had spent supporting her marriage with both hands, all the time knowing that her husband could break her life apart. Well, he had done it. At least now she was waiting for nothing; she could be the one to break what she loved herself. If she loved Brian—but she knew that she had definitely loved the life he had given her, and that was over.

Clare laughed to herself again, breaking Irene out of her own thoughts, and then kissed her. Irene was not surprised by it. For a moment she felt posed awkwardly, as if she was waiting for the door to open; then Clare’s tongue moved against her lip, and at once Irene felt something rush through her like a current, mouth to breast to stomach, and then moving lower down. She heard herself make a soft, animal sound, like a girl, and clutched at Clare’s white shoulders, not knowing what she wanted, except more of it. 

Afterwards— afterwards, Irene would be furious with herself; but that was a very long time off, and in the meantime she did not think about Brian, or the children, or poor Manja; there were only two people in the apartment, and thus the world.

There must have been some memory within her of the conversation Clare had treasured all those years. It had never meant very much to Irene— Irene, who had never considered what she felt for Clare Kendry as anything resembling love. It had probably been a relief to her to think of queer, unmanageable Clare going off to be tamed by those distant aunts. Perhaps she had even been foolish enough to believe that Clare was put out of her life for good; but it was only the first time the thought could have occurred to her, and even after twelve years, the lesson had not fully stuck.


End file.
